


you are the caught crow (oh my love, did i ever hurt you?)

by amako



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (he's something but it's a surprise so this tag is just to give context), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Asexual Character, Autistic Lambert (The Witcher), But also, Canon - Original Game, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Demisexual Character, Eskel Is A Fucking Delight, F/M, Feral Behavior, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Lambert (The Witcher), Friendship, Gen, Intimacy, M/M, Monster Jaskier | Dandelion, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Canon Compliant, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Protective Eskel (The Witcher), Queerplatonic Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Queerplatonic Relationships, Romantic Soulmates, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and you can FIGHT ME ON THIS, he's so protective of Lambert & Jaskier's relationship it's kinda epic, it's a mix of game and series canon, it's minor but it's there, plus my own bullshit on top
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27729421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amako/pseuds/amako
Summary: A blood-curling scream, filled with the pain of a thousand lifetimes before this one all waking up at once. In the back of his mind, indistinct, he hears another scream right next to him, so close yet muffled.The pain is too strong, the influx of information and feelings and memories and pain-It's too much. He passes out.orPost-mountain, Jaskier meets two Witchers on the brink of death. He offers his help, and gets a soulmate in return. A soulmate who doesn't want love, while Jaskier doesn't remember how to give it.
Relationships: (past relationship), Aiden & Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Aiden & Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 22
Kudos: 207





	1. your evil eyes reflect the light

**Author's Note:**

> heeeey  
> look i know ok. i'm like a dog bringing you the decomposing corpse of an animal and looking at you like i've just done you a favour. but listen. liiiisten. i love jaskier & lambert and i wanted to explore what they could be as soulmates. now. don't make me say what i didn't say. this is not a love story. if you look at the tags, you'll see there are no ships listed. YET. because what i want is to explore friendship and care and love and intimacy before i go and slap a romance story on these people. it will happen, i plan on it. just, not now. this isn't a slow burn either, i'm not here to make you suffer, but you know. now you've been warned.
> 
> however, if this is a case of "i hate this ship and i don't want to get invested in this story if the ship is gonna be endgame', then you're welcome to post a comment with the ship you hate in particular and i'll tell you if it's something i'll write or not. as soon as i get your reply that you've seen it, i'll delete my comment. that way, you won't feel betrayed later on. don't worry, it happened to me, it sucks, i don't want it to happen to anyone else.
> 
> there will be no character bashing in this fic, just so you know. i've also made-up my soulmate verse, so it's not like the traditional "first words on the wrist". if you're following me from my main fandom to this fic, then you know how i write soulmates. it's the same kind of deal here.  
> title and chapter names is from Caught Crow by The Blue Angel Lounge (they're my favourite band of all time and i don't know anyone else who listens to them and it huuurts)
> 
> let me know how you like this, it's always a bit stressful to switch from a fandom you're kinda well-known for, to another very different one

The night is loud, alive, wrapping around him like a fur coat. There's an owl in the tree right above his head, his song beautiful in the warm darkness, a melody to the beat of the cicadas that started their own performance right after dusk. He can hear a family of foxes in the bushes, the yapping of the wolf-dogs in the distance, and much closer, comforting and familiar, the crackling sounds of the red-hot fire he built when he set up camp.

In a strange, unexpected way, the forest is a soothing balm to Jaskier's emotional cuts, its intricate song stopping the bleeding and letting the shooting stars of this end of summer night cauterize the wounds, like an amputated limb finally laid to rest.

It's the second night in a row he spends in this forest, on the verge of Cintran territory, a behemoth of trees and rivers that goes on and on, enough that the locals warned him about it when he left the last village to enter the woods. Their advice had been to follow the stream that crossed the village and disappeared between the trees, because it would eventually lead him to Cintra. He's not lost, so far, so he'll take it.

South of the forest, standing tall and proud despite the ruin brought by the war, stands Kerack. Jaskier had stopped there, in an inn instead of the family home. Nose deep in ale to forget the drowning of his heart, he thinks for a moment of stopping by, saying hello, to his siblings and his father.

But when, late into the night, he hears the first whispers of Nilfgaard marching on Cintra— without looking back, he left Kerack behind and followed the whispers from village to village until he made his way into the forest. And now, with the loud, comforting song of the forest, Jaskier almost feels at peace. Almost feels happy. Almost.

The crackling of the fire makes him jump as a bigger log tumbles down the wood pile. Jaskier notices the silence of the night at the same time as he starts tensing up. Something is happening. He's not alone anymore.

Jaskier slowly rises to his feet, silent and focused. His fingers wrap around the hilt of his sword, his knees bending slightly in a guarded stance. Just as he steps forward to investigate the soft, brushing sounds coming from the bushes, something crashes into the clearing in a blur of movements that Jaskier struggles to follow.

On reflex more than anything, he raises his sword just in time to parry a strike that would have brought a lesser man to his knees. Instead, he feels the force of the attack reverberate throughout his body, grunting under the aching pain in his shoulders.

Without pause, he counters, his sword brushing close enough to his attacker to cut the man's chemise from side to side. His skin remains unblemished. In the moment of stillness that follows, Jaskier stares at the man in front of him, noticing in barely a second the impressive stature, the broad shoulders and many, many scars, topped by faintly glowing golden, cat eyes.

Jaskier lowers his sword slightly, taken aback. Before he can talk, the Witcher attacks again, and this time Jaskier has no issues dodging the strike. His brows furrows, watching the man intently. There's no way, no matter how good he's become with his recent training, that he'd be able to stand his own against a Witcher. Something's wrong.

The problem is clear soon enough. The Witcher is bleeding from countless cuts, a large, gaping wound going from his collarbone to his ribs in a straight, bloody line seeming to be the main culprit of the man's stumbling combat style.

Jaskier disengages almost immediately, raising his hands in a pacifying manner.

“I don't want to fight you, Witcher. I do not wish any harm upon you.” Jaskier's eyes fall on a still silhouette, just as massive, if not more, than his attacker, unmoving in a tree. “Or your companion.”

Ever-watchful eyes notice the wolf pendant, and that gives further context to the extensive facial scars of his opponent. With growing confidence, Jaskier drops his sword, before speaking again.

“Eskel? School of the Wolf? Please, let me help you. I consider myself a friend of your brother, Geralt. I swear it on my craft, I do not wish you, or your brother, any harm.”

Finally, the Witcher lowers his sword, still silent, panting in a worrying manner.

“Please,” Jaskier repeats, soothing voice imbued with the magic he tries to limit to backward taverns who need to relax when a Witcher walks through the door. He takes one step forward, expression and hands open. They're just where he needs them when Eskel crumbles to the ground with barely a sound.

Jaskier tries his best not to panic when the Witcher collapses at his feet, so close to unconsciousness Jaskier doesn't even realize he's still awake until a slight whimper escapes his lips. He runs towards the man and kneels at his side, fully prepared to haul his ass up if he needs to, but before he can brace himself for the pull, the Witcher grabs his forearm and drags him down, close to his face.

Jaskier goes willingly, almost certain of the reason for the move. And indeed, Eskel whispers in his ear to listen.

“My brother... I left him on a tree branch to-to protect him. Please... bring me to him. I-I will owe you. Anything you might want.”

“There is no need for that, darling. I'll help you and your brother because I can, alright? Now, hang on to my neck, let's try to make this as painless as possible.”

Eskel complies easily, wrapping his arms around Jaskier's neck while the bard's hands embraces the Witcher's midsection and, with a groan, drags the both of them up until Eskel can put his feet under himself.

“Alright, darling, lead me to that brother of yours. And if you're feeling up to it, I'd much appreciate it if you could tell him I'm here to help, yes?”

Eskel nods minutely against Jaskier's throat where his face is just as much resting as it is hiding. For a second, Jaskier can't stop himself from feeling wistful, all those times his help was refused, even sneered at, at the profit of the special brand of self-destructive self-care Geralt seems to favour. In comparison, Eskel is positively drowning him in thanks as he leans into the offered supportive hold Jaskier provides. And if it breaks the bard's heart just this little bit more, well. It's not like there is much left to break, after all, but Geralt always strived to do the impossible, even if it means destroying just a little more of what allows Jaskier to keep going.

Swallowing compulsively around the chokehold of emotions tightening around his throat, the bard takes a step forward, holding onto Eskel as much as the Witcher is holding onto him. With the combined speed of two anaemic snails, they painstakingly make their way to the treeline around the clearing where the bard first heard Eskel approach.

As he expected, when they breach the cover of the trees, Eskel doing his best to help despite his severely weakened state, they found the third wolf brother Jaskier ever had the pleasure of meeting. He's also very clearly passed out, from what the bard assumes is a mix of the blood loss from a thigh wound still bleeding profusely on the now mushy forest ground, and the head wound that bled all over the poor man's face.

Eskel makes a punched out noise, his distress evident even to someone who can't smell emotions. Jaskier doesn't resist one but when his charge slips out of his hold, folding surprisingly gracefully to his knees for someone as injured as the Witcher is.

While Eskel desperately tries to contain his worry for his fellow, Jaskier takes a bracing inhale, before reaching for the thankfully low branch where the unconscious wolf is resting. Barely reaching Jaskier's shoulders, the branch allows him to still wrap his arms around the Witcher and slowly drag him to the side. He tilts, carefully restrained by Jaskier, until the bard drags a bit more forcefully and the Witcher finally tips to the side into Jaskier's waiting arms.

He can't contain the punched-out sound caused by the sudden weight of a massive, unresponsive Witcher, but Jaskier stands steady and manages to keep the man upright long enough to slide him to the ground. With slightly shaking hands, the bard leans the Witcher against the trunk, right next to where Eskel is sitting, trying his very best not to drop unconscious in the next moment.

Jaskier swings the satchel he now never separates from and brings it to his front. Inside is a fairly complete medkit, with a mix of human and Witcher-appropriate healing supplies. Despite his heartbreaking separation with the White Wolf, Jaskier never actually emptied the satchel of the items for his former friend. He's very glad for it now, Melitele bless his poor foolish heart.

“My friend, I would like your permission to approach your companion and care for him. I have some supplies that are appropriate for your kind, and I assure you I have the necessary knowledge and training to use them,” the bard explains softly, showing the content of his satchel. Relief falls on Eskel's weary features, and he sags next to his brother, gesturing tiredly at the unconscious Witcher.

“Have at. I can't exactly stop you, but I would appreciate if you showed me what you want to give him before you do.”

“Of course, Eskel. I know you can smell lies, to a certain extent, but I still thank you for your trust.”

Eskel sighs, exhaustion and pain clear on his face.

“Not much of a choice, have I?”

“Still,” Jaskier hums gratefully. “I have known people far less inclined to give me their trust, and they had known me for many more years than the few minutes since we've met.”

Eskel doesn't respond, and Jaskier doesn't expect him to.

From the inside of his kit, he grabs a small vial of Swallow, which he brewed himself. Geralt had never hid his potion-making, and it had been easy enough for Jaskier to teach himself herbalism during the long winter months, to later identify the herbs Geralt were using and make the potions himself.

“Eskel?” The Witcher raises his head slowly, obviously in pain as he squints, trying to focus on what Jaskier is showing him. “It's Swallow, darling. I'd like to give him that first to kick-start the healing, then tend to his wounds. That alright?”

Eskel mumbles something unintelligible, but he does nod and Jaskier is going to take what he can get. Without pause, he reaches for the unconscious man's nape, holding his head steady as he tips a few drops of the potion into his mouth. Not much at first, just to see if he's capable to swallow it without help, and without choking.

The Witcher's throat works compulsively. Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief and slowly gives him the rest of the potion. The effect is almost instantaneous. The head wound begins to clog up, at last stopping to bleed. Confident now that the potion is helping him out, Jaskier feels less dubious about focusing on saving his life.

Gently, he circles the Witcher's shoulders with his arms, supporting him as Jaskier lays him on the ground. His head is just at the right place to fall on Eskel's thighs, for which Jaskier pats himself on the back. Eskel flinches a bit when the weight brings him back from his semi-unconsciousness, but he looks so relieved that Jaskier absolutely counts this as a win.

With Eskel's hands finding their way in the other man's hair, Jaskier has no qualms about taking out the short knife he keeps on his thigh for hunting and cutting the Witcher's shirt open.

Jaskier isn't sure what happened of either Witcher's armor, but he'll count himself lucky that he doesn't have to divest them of the heavy leather their kind seem to favour. With quick, precise movements, he removes the stained chemise, taking the time to cut strips from the parts that are free of blood. He's going to need them later.

His eyes run over the Witcher's torso, seeing many smaller wounds that have all stopped bleeding, and are slowly closing. Too slow. Jaskier has seen Geralt's wounds disappear in minutes, when they're this size. Something's wrong here.

The bard debates internally for a second, before coming to a decision and jumping to his feet. He waves a hand at Eskel, hoping the man is too drowsy to worry and dislodge the other. In a few quick steps, Jaskier goes back to his fire and drags his pot closer. He had washed it some time earlier, after finishing the last of his soup. There's a stream closeby, but Jaskier doesn't feel confident enough in the injured Witcher's chances to find it again.

Instead, he empties his gourd in the pot, then upturns his pack in his rush to find— yes! He grabs the leather pouches and goes back to the fire. With the help of a stick and the firm, stubborn decision that he truly doesn't care that it _burns_ , Jaskier manages to get some of the red-hot stones out of the embers and into the pouches. Drawing the strings quickly while blowing on his new collection of burns, he drops the pouches in the pot and in just a few seconds, the water is boiling.

Jaskier brings the pot back to the Witchers, shrugging in a 'what can you do?' manner at Eskel's incredulous look when he sees the burns. Now with water and cloth, Jaskier begins the long, careful process of cleaning the many, _many_ wounds on the third Wolf Witcher- gods, what's his name?! Jaskier can't remember- battered body.

Sewing up the biggest wounds on his torso, covering them lightly for now, Jaskier can then focus on the two biggest offenders. First, he cleans extensively the nasty, deep cut on the man's leg. He has to stop for a moment and truly consider his options, because he doesn't like the idea of sewing that kind of wound shut in the state it's in.

He's treated wounds like this before, and were there to be sutured up too soon, the injured party had a high chance of bleeding on the inside and dying from that instead. Even with the Witcher- Leo?- being what he is, Jaskier doesn't like his chances. For a second, his eyes flicker up, debating asking Eskel for his opinion, for the man surely knows more about Witcher metabolism than Jaskier, but-

But Eskel is asleep, fingers still wound up tight in his brother's hair. The bard sighs, features softening for a moment as he takes in the kind intimacy in their posture. Alright, no help on that front. He has to make a choice, though.

In the end, Jaskier decides that this is not worth the risk. He takes out another vial of Swallow from his satchel and empties a third of it in the unconscious Witcher's -Léandre, maybe?- mouth. He doesn't dare give him any more until he sees his healing rate improve. Then he goes back to the thigh wound and lays a folded piece of cloth on it, tying a tight, unmovable garotte over it. This should buy him a bit more time without the man bleeding out any more than he already has.

Finally, Jaskier tends to his head wound. Cleaned and sutured up, it looks a lot less concerning now, and some colour even made its way back on the Witcher's sunken, ashen cheeks as he was working. Jaskier carefully lifts an eyelid to see the man's pupils dancing wild. He bites his lip, unsure if this is the obvious concussion or perhaps the poison he's suspecting more and more.

The slowed healing, the lesser effectiveness of the potion, the ugly thigh wound... Jaskier would bet good money that the blade the Witcher- Lambert! That's it!- took to the thigh was covered in something nasty and most likely deadly to the average man.

Honestly, looking at the Wolf's state, Jaskier can't help but think it would have been deadly to him too if they hadn't stumbled upon the bard's camp when they did.

Sighing, Jaskier leans back on his heels, crouching low as he looks at the two Witchers. That was some luck, if he dares say so. Lambert should survive, Jaskier is confident enough in his own abilities, but as much as he'd love to let poor Eskel sleep, he needs his wounds taken care of just as much.

Letting himself fall forward, the bard ends up kneeling next to Lambert's head, close enough that he can gently shake Eskel awake. His hand has barely touched the Witcher's shoulder that a grip like a vice snatches his wrist and threatens to break it with the sheer force of it.

Jaskier gasps in surprise, the sound almost immediately turning into a pained yelp when the pressure doesn't let up. He can feel tears well up, incapable of stopping the keening sound ripped out from his throat. Not his hand, _Melitele, not his hand..._

Jaskier's eyes fall to Eskel's lap, where a golden stare is piercing through the night, wild and confused and ready to _hurt_.

Eskel jerks awake when Lambert growls, the enraged sound almost feral in the silence of the moment.

“Hey, hey, it's okay. Lamb, it's alright, he's helping us. He's helping.” Eskel's fingers run through Lambert's hair, gentle and kind despite the Witcher's obvious urgency to see his brother release Jaskier. “He's helping,” he repeats “we're safe, Lamb. We're safe.”

It's probably a combination of things; Eskel's low voice, his gentle caresses, the words themselves and their promise of safety, maybe even the pain in Jaskier's voice and Jaskier's scent. It works, thank Melitele, but it works. Lambert slowly releases his deadly grip on Jaskier's wrist.

The bard lets out a sob of pain and relief and cradles his wrist against his chest, curling around it protectively.

“Hey. 'm sorry. Instinct,” Lambert whispers, obviously still exhausted and in pain from his not-quite healed wounds.

Jaskier is already answering before _it starts._

“I- I understand, darling. It's forgiven.”

He's barely closed his mouth around the last word when the pain _explodes_. For a single, horrifying second, he's in so much pain he can only stay there, kneeling on the spongy, gorged-on-blood forest floor, mouth open and eyes wide. Then

Jaskier

_screams_

A blood-curling scream, filled with the pain of a thousand lifetimes before this one all waking up at once. In the back of his mind, indistinct, he hears another scream right next to him, so close yet muffled.

The pain is too strong, the influx of information and feelings and memories and _pain_ -

It's too much. He passes out.

It mustn't have been more than a few minutes when he jerks awake, sitting up before he even realises he's doing it.

His wrist is throbbing with a burning pain completely disproportionate to the grip Lambert had on it- Lambert!

Jaskier frantically looks around him, noticing immediately that he hasn't moved a bit from where he was just a moment before. Eskel is kneeling between him and his brother, looking like he's about to faint from anxiety. His hands are curled around Lambert's shoulders as he bows over his brother's body, sobbing uncontrollably.

“-all t-the gods above! What's ha-happening, L-Lamb, answer me, what's going on...”

Jaskier's eyes land on the still, unmoving form of the other Witcher. He doesn't even look like he's breathing, his eyes closed and face frozen in a grimace of excruciating pain.

It all comes back to Jaskier in a second. The grip on his wrist, Lambert's mumbled apology and his own words, and the _pain_ , oh gods, the pain. And just like that, Jaskier understands.

He looks down at his wrist, and sure enough.

He can't help the small, broken laugh that escapes his mouth, as his poor, foolish heart breaks once more, shatters to dust that the night's air disperses instantly.

Feeling like he's about to pass out again, Jaskier crawls to Lambert's side. Eskel turns to look at him, eyes red and breathing wild, his face twisting in guilt when he notices how hard it is for Jaskier to move.

“I'm sorry, I didn't check- but Lambert was- I'm sorry, let me help.”

With Eskel's still considerable strength despite his injuries (and Jaskier sees the empty vial of Swallow on the ground where he had left it almost full, which does reassure him a little as to Eskel's state), he manages to get Jaskier to sit. The bard instantly falls to the side, against Eskel's chest where a strong arm keeps him in place.

“I don't have the energy, darling,” Jaskier whispers against Eskel's chemise, eyes falling shut despite his best efforts. “Take- take my hand, put it on Lambert. Skin to skin, please.”

Exhausted simply from those few words, Jaskier breathes slowly, focusing on the soft material of a chemise well-worn shifting against his cheek. Eskel doesn't question him and does what he asked. Soon enough, Jaskier's palm is resting against Lambert's slow beating heart. Even better than he expected, and he can _feel_ _everything_.

It's like the mountain that was resting on his shoulders has suddenly been lifted. Jaskier can breathe so much better, and he can feel how it affects Lambert as well. The Witcher's eyes flutter open, his pain-stricken features softening at last.

“Wha' t'fuck,” he mumbles. His golden stare falls on Jaskier, practically in Eskel's lap at this point, and it's like the world

stops

_breathing_

“Hello, sweetheart,” Jaskier whispers. _I've missed you all my life_ , he thinks without realising it, and Lambert flinches.

“Bullshit,” he says and _Bullshit_ , he thinks, and Jaskier hears it all, hears his fear and his disbelief and the blood pumping through his veins and the way his heart beats too slow and how his ankle hurts like it's always hurts since he fell and twisted it on the Trail almost century ago and

“I've been waiting for you,” they say together, softly, eyes locked in place by something greater than them and older than time.

Against Jaskier's back, the rumble of Eskel's laugh jerks him out of the trance he had been sinking in.

“You've got to be kidding me,” he laughs and laughs and wipes a stubborn tear left from his previous worry. “I'm disgustingly happy for you right now, Lamb,” and he laughs and Jaskier relaxes and finds Lambert's eyes. Still disbelieving. Still in pain. But...

“Don't leave me,” Lambert breathes, his voice broken by a life of rejection and trial and Trials

except

“I'm never letting you go,” Jaskier breathes at the same time, their voices crossing and curling around each other in a promise, a promise they've made again and again, life after life.

On Jaskier's wrist, the mark of fingers and a palm curling around it, in a coppery-gold that shifts under the light of the fire.

Over and under Lambert's left eye, two fingerprints, light and misshapen but there all the same, in the blue of the ocean where it crashes against the coast.

Written on their ribs, in a parallel position where their soul split in half such a long time ago, the first words they exchanged after touching each other. After their half of a soul recognised the other and screamed _mine to keep_ for the entire world to hear.

“Eskel, darling, not that I'm not delighted to have found my companion soul, but I need to take care of those wounds.”

Jaskier's voice breaks the spell that had fallen over the campsite.

“And I still need to sew your wound shut, Lambert, now that your body has taken care of the poison.”

Eskel laughs, light and happy and like he's half-convinced to be dreaming. “Lambert, your Soul is a fucking gift.”

Jaskier giggles shyly, his smile hidden behind a hand that stands for all the time his help wasn't appreciated, his care was rejected.

Lambert is staring at Jaskier, his own hand curled around his heart as if in pain.

(of course he's in pain, he's only beginning to understand that there is nothing left of his Soul's heart for him to cherish, that he came too late and someone already ground to dust all that was Good and Pure in his companion soul and only left ashes and tears)

“Yeah, he is,” Lambert says softly, Jaskier's heartbreak slowly cracking his own heart open with the force of it.

Kneeling at his side, Jaskier stops giggling. His face falls little by little, as something begins to tremble inside of him, starts to shake, to boil, curling around his bones like venom and fangs.

Jaskier's pupils blow wide and his lips curl over teeth that seem sharper in the moonlight. His heart beats a wild rhythm but his blood is boiling and he doesn't even try to contain the snarl that leaves his twisted mouth.

In the quiet of this strange, fated night, Lambert feels his poor, foolish heart shatter.

In the quiet of this strange, fated night, Jaskier sees _red_ and a century-old wrath burns his heart to the ground.


	2. one day i will get in your mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who responded so positively to this story. It's not easy to join a new fandom, especially a more active one than my usual, and I'm delighted by the response. Here's hoping you'll keep enjoying it!

Jaskier isn't exactly certain what happens after that.

It's becoming increasingly harder to think. He's angry, _oh_ , he's so angry, that he can't really focus on anything besides the rage festering inside his bones. The world is hazy around him, the night not as comforting as it was less than an hour before. He's not sure what he was doing. All he can think about, right now, are the desperate need to rip something limb by limb until the wrath begins to subside, and the just as desperate need to stay as close to his soulmate as possible.

He must have been doing something, before, but he can't put his finger on it, and neither of the Witcher seems inclined to enlighten him. No matter. As long as he can stay next to Lambert, maybe he can even bear to push his desire for violence to the side.

Eskel is sitting next to them, patching himself up. He's half into Jaskier's supplies and half into the special satchel, alternating between sips of a potion Jaskier doesn't have the mind to recognise and strips of linen to bandage his wounds.

Oh. Maybe that's what Jaskier was doing before. He's not certain, but it sounds familiar. Was he hurt?

There isn't near enough conviction in his mind for him to justify moving and checking to see if he's hurt. So he doesn't move.

Instead, he remains curled on the forest floor, his back to the warm fire. There's no world in which he'll be convinced to let go of the entangled embrace he and Lambert have found themselves into. Jaskier doesn't even remember how he get here, arms around Lambert's waist as his curl around Jaskier's shoulders, legs hooked to each other's.

It's getting harder to stay awake. To stay focused.

There is a hand in his hair, fingers combing through tangled locks, gentle and brief. Jaskier hums, accepting the touch easily enough.

“You two rest. I'll stand guard.”

“Eskel...” The whispers comes from somewhere underneath Jaskier's chin, where Lambert has hidden away.

“Don't worry, Lamb. Nothing's gonna happen to either of you. You need to relearn to be together, and it's gonna be easier if you're both sleeping.” The hand leaves Jaskier's hair, passes in front of his face and lands in Lambert's, still in Jaskier's vision. “I'll stand guard, brother.”

_Very well_ , Jaskier thinks. He relaxes little by little, trying to push the rage down in his chest, where he'll pick it up later. For now, they need to rest. They need to teach their half of a soul what it's like to be whole once more.

Jaskier closes his eyes, humming a song from his time at the Academy. It's about companion souls, a subject he's rarely sang about during his travels. He finds he doesn't mind the subject so much, now, with his arms full of the other half of his soul.

With the brush of a murmur for company, Eskel's vigilant silhouette sitting near their heads, Jaskier and Lambert fall asleep.

“ _As if! W'all know y' ain't makin' it a season on the Path, you cockwhore. Good riddance, too, lil' cunt could never take a lesson shuttin' up. Always had to beat yer ass bloody to make it stick.”_

Jaskier wakes up with a scream lodged in his throat. He looks around frantically, searching for a hunched silhouette he's never going to find, listening for a sneering, disdainful voice he's never going to hear. He doesn't realise how hard he's panting until it turns into a snarl he can't hope to control.

“You're safe. You're alright. Nothing's gonna hurt you now, not with two Witchers around, yeah? You can go back to sleep if you want.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, fucking witch's bastard. Good for nothing but sparkles, are ya?”

Jaskier and Eskel stare at each other, stunned and horrified.

“By all the gods, Eskel, I'm so so-”

“How did you- he's... how did you know about this?”

Eskel's voice is quiet, hardened in a way that only speaks of trying to shield weaknesses. He's alternating between staring at Jaskier with heartbroken, bewildered eyes, and looking anywhere but at the bard.

“I'm... not sure what I just said. Not sure where it came from.”

Eskel swallows difficultly. “I mean, it's obvious. Not that I expected... but the explanation is easy enough. What you said...” He sighs, looking at the ground, looking at Lambert, something old and barely scarred over in his amber eyes. “That's what one of the trainers used to call me. _Witch's bastard_. He hated how good I was with Signs. Hated how I came to be a Witcher, where I came from.”

Eskel huffs a laugh, eyes on the starry night sky now, only half-visible through the canopy.

“Hated a lot of things, actually. Hated Lambert, most of all.”

_Oh_. _That explains it_ , Jaskier thinks, the voice yelling in his mind less confusing now.

“He said Lambert wouldn't make it a year on the Path, didn't he?” he says it so soft Eskel never would have heard it if he wasn't a Witcher.

“Yeah, he did. Of course, Lamb proved him wrong.”

Eskel's smile is fond, full of a love Jaskier is so glad for. So relieved to know his Soul had someone who cared for him throughout the long, long years he spent on the harsh Path.

“I came back in one fucking piece, and when I saw that old cunt, I cut him up in all the pieces he thought I'd be coming back as.”

Jaskier jumps slightly, turning to look at Lambert. The Witcher is still lying down next to Jaskier, his eyes lost somewhere in the sky high above them. Jaskier can't look away from that face, the scars, the eyes, the feeling deep inside that this is it, this is _him_ , this is them together as one.

But the more he looks, the angrier he gets. That fury he felt briefly, the rage simmering beneath his skin when he fell into a restless sleep. It's- it's _crawling_ inside Jaskier's veins, his heart beating faster with it, his breaths coming shorter, quicker, as he _burns_.

Lambert turns his head slightly, just enough that he can look Jaskier in the eye, and that's when he realises that Lambert is crying.

“Alright, what the hell is happening.”

They ignore him. Jaskier's face twist into a grimace of pure rage. He bares his teeth and a growl he shouldn't be able to produce rises from the depth of his singer lungs. He feels unhinged, that if an animal were to pass them by, he'd jump it and rip its throat with his teeth.

The more the rage boils, the hotter it burns inside Jaskier, the quicker his breaths come out, the more Lambert's face falls. It falls and falls and cracks and shatters and there are tears spilling from golden eyes and a whimper coming from deep inside his Witcher lungs. Soon, he's sobbing, shoulders shaking hard enough to leave him trembling on the hard ground.

“I'm really, _really_ fucking angry right now,” Jaskier growls more than he whispers, watching unblinking the tears carving trenches on the cheeks of his Soul.

“It hurts so much, oh gods, it _hurts_ ,” Lambert sobs. His hand tenses into a grip that rakes over his chest, as if he's trying to rip his heart out.

“You need to calm down, both of you. You're getting stuck in an exchange loop.” Eskel is kneeling behind their heads, where they're curled towards each others. “Come on, you're smarter than that. You know what this is, come on,” he urges, petting Lambert's hair with one hand, the other hovering over Jaskier's as if unsure of its welcome.

Jaskier growls, looking at Eskel with eyes that are taking a different glint, lips curled over teeth that are getting longer and sharper by the minute. The Witcher's words slowly seep through the fog of rage tainting his mind. Jaskier takes a deep breath, a second one, one more as he looks at the tears on Lambert's scarred face.

Feeling his heart calming down, Jaskier closes his eyes, focusing on the beating and trying to slow it even more. When it seems like he's succeeding, he reaches for Lambert, grabbing a shaking hand.

The touch burns and electrifies and freezes all at once. The shock of it certainly pulls Lambert out of the heartache he was drowning in. His breath hitches and his hand curls around Jaskier. Obviously fighting against his own instincts, he crawls up to a sitting position. His heavy body leans to the side until his shoulder is pressed against Jaskier.

“You feeling better?” Eskel asks, his fingertips brushing against Lambert's arm as if he getting calmer means Eskel can't touch him anymore. Maybe that's the case, Jaskier wonders, hurting for a companion soul he needs to learn all over again.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Eskel snorts, Jaskier hearing in it as much amusement as familiar disappointment. “Yeah, you're feeling better alright.”

Jaskier looks between the two Witchers, feeling that he's missing something important. He's missing so much, actually, multiple lifetimes of memories, but tonight that isn't what he's aching to understand. Not right now, at the very least. He wonders if they're lovers, if his Soul found companionship, comfort, maybe even love in his brother of circumstances and choice.

Jaskier finds that he wouldn't mind, if that were the case. There is no world where he would deny the other half of his soul the love and respect and tenderness he deserves. That it not be with him is entirely irrelevant.

“Well, that was quite the evening, wasn't it?” Jaskier hides a wince at his own words. Of course, when in doubts, let's fall back on the charming fool persona... that's exactly what he needs to make a good impression on stoic, manly Witcher. Jaskier has to pour a lot more will than he currently can spare into not sighing.

“Fucking understatement,” Eskel agrees, staring at his open hands resting on his crossed legs.

Jaskier swallows, finding that he just can't make conversation right now. He's exhausted, emotionally and physically. In a very much too short time span, he's been cast aside by his best friend of twenty-five years, travelled for weeks without much breaks, cared for two mortally wounded Witchers while sleep-deprived, and found his Soul. He's entitled to a bit of weariness, thank you very much.

But damn it if this is _not_ the time for his social skills to disappear.

He refuses to make a bad impression on the most important person in his life, or on the man who appears to be his Soul's most important person.

He wants Eskel to like him. He _needs it_ , in a way he's starting to recognise as echoes from the constant exchange going on between Lambert and him.

“How about we do this again, yeah?”

Eskel's voice is surprisingly soft, given the wry, no-bullshit humour he's displayed so far. Jaskier blinks in disbelief, but quickly realises that this isn't the first Witcher he's known to show different parts of himself depending on a number of factors.

“I'm Eskel of the Wolf School. It's good to meet you, and not just because you're Lambert's Soul.”

Jaskier stares as Eskel sketches a shallow bow, mostly prevented by his sitting position.

“I'm- It's lovely to meet you too, darling. I'm the bard Jaskier.”

Eskel smiles, a genuine, real smile that lights up his scarred face. “We know who we are, Jaskier. But it's really good to get to meet you in person. You're not much like we were lead to think.”

Jaskier's kind expression sours instantly. He grimaces. “Yes, well. I'm not entirely surprised about that; I have unfortunately made more enemies than friends during my career across the continent.”

“So I've heard. But, Jaskier...”

The bard meets Eskel's amber eyes. The Witcher is fighting to get on his knees, in a position similar to how Geralt meditates. Jaskier is reminded of the terrible injuries he patched up, how Eskel had to make do with Jaskier's potions and the bare minimum he was able to do for the Witcher before... well.

Before Jaskier's astonished eyes, Eskel closes his and dips his head forward. The rest of his body follows, and soon enough, Eskel is almost bent in half in a bow.

“If we hadn't stumbled upon you, if you hadn't been every bit of the honorable man you turned out to be- Jaskier, you saved our lives.”

The bow lasts a second too long for comfort, but Jaskier lets it happen. He understands how, for a warrior culture like the one the Witcher Schools developed decades after centuries, a life debt is a terribly important thing. He would never refute something of this magnitude for these men, even if he would never ask for it on his own.

“You were already helping us before you even knew what I was to you.”

The low, coarse voice has Jaskier almost jump out of his skin. Lambert has barely said a word since he and Eskel stumbled upon the bard's camp. Jaskier is used to silence from the gentle giants Witchers all seem to be. It still hurts, from Lambert who is every bit the missing part in Jaskier's life; but for this exact reason, Jaskier _understands_ , and he would never push.

Still, hearing the words shaped by this mouth, the thoughts crafted by this mind, is a privilege he'll never get tired of.

“Well, I- of course I was, darling. I couldn't very well leave you both to die now, could I? I had the knowledge and supplies to help you, and far more importantly, the stubbornness to make sure you'd both live to see another day.”

“ _How the fuck did I get so lucky?”_

Lambert's voice is so soft that Jaskier would never have been able to hear it normally. But he's the Soul of a Witcher, with all that it entails. His hearing is now more than able to pick apart the sounds of the night that delighted him so much at the start of the evening, to extract the words that left Lambert's mouth.

Jaskier knows Lambert never intended for him to hear that, knows that Eskel was permitted to hear it only because he has known Jaskier's companion soul for more than a century. He knows it like he knows his own heart, and so he doesn't answer, no matter how much he hurts to do so.

“Nevertheless, bard. Thank you. You saved me, and I won't forget it. If you need something, you only have to ask.”

That's a heavy promise, that Jaskier understands for all that it weights. He nods, eyes serious.

“I won't insult you by saying it was nothing, but it is not in my nature to hold onto favours. I hope you can believe that I would not abuse the debt you owe me.”

Eskel nods once, satisfied. With a weary sigh, he leans back, finally allowing himself to relax against the trunk of the elm behind him. Lambert stays where he is, peering at Jaskier underneath dark eyelashes. The bard pretends not to see it. He isn't in his Soul's head, but he can imagine how hard this situation is to get a hold of. He will give Lambert all the time he needs.

“So, Jaskier the bard, what are you doing on korrigan territory in the middle of the night?”

_What._

“Surely, you must be joking,” Jaskier laughs nervously, his eyes flickering all around him, for the first time cursing the limited range of the fire's light.

“About which part?” Eskel raises an eyebrow. “Did you truly not know where you were stepping foot?”

“Well, I heard rumors, I suppose, but you know how people are in small villages.”

“Knowledgeable about their environment, you mean?”

Jaskier squints, having half a mind to get offended, but it's not like Eskel is _wrong._

“Alright, so maybe I didn't pay much of a mind to their warnings about these woods. But, my dear, you must acknowledge that they tend to blow things out of proportion. The first time I ever went on a hunt with Geralt, we went expecting a Devil and found starving elves. You'll excuse my scepticism.”

“That was fucking dumb of you anyway,” Lambert grumbles, scowling deeply and _gods_ but Jaskier is still not used to hearing him speak.

He huffs. “I have been many things in my life, Wolf, but self-preserving has never been one of them.”

The two Witchers give him twin looks of dumbfounded disbelief, which Jaskier decides to be proud of having caused. You don't catch a Witcher off-guard often, but _oh_ , Jaskier has turned it into an _art form_ , thank you very much.

 _Professor Pankratz of the Eight Liberal Arts_ , Jaskier thinks, amused beyond reason.

It must show on his face, because Eskel ducks his head, huffing a laugh Jaskier finds himself delighted to hear. When he looks at Lambert, however, his own smile drops from his face. Instead, he stares, feeling his heart beat faster and faster as a quiet, genuine, _beautiful_ smile appears like a miracle.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, feeling faint, feeling blessed.

“Can I-” he licks his lips, unblinking in the face of the blatant echo of his happiness on such a weathered, pained face. “Can I touch you?”

Lambert makes a punched out noise, with a nod so quick only Jaskier's new eyes allow him to see it.

Feeling like a king, feeling like a child, Jaskier reaches for his Soul, offering an open palm and loose fingers. Lambert rests his calluses and the story of his battles in the palm of Jaskier's hand and what is Jaskier to do but wrap strong fingers around the gift he's been given?

For a brief moment, Jaskier pushes his heartbreak, his bitterness, his sadness and resentment aside. For a brief moment, as he stares into golden eyes, he focuses on all that is good and beautiful about the world. He thinks of joy and kindness and all the good memories that only ask to be brought up again. A brief respite in the storm of the past few weeks, a brief stop in the haze of pain.

How could it not be worth it, though, when Lambert looks back at him and _smiles_.


End file.
